


But I don't wanna be a giant rabbit!

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [25]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Lycranthropy, Slight rabbit behavior, Wererabbit shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 20:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15373041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Carrots are not actually a stable rabbit diet.But The Constant doesn't recognize that and apparently being cursed with lycranthropy means breaking the normal rules.





	But I don't wanna be a giant rabbit!

He woke up with the taste of carrots in his mouth.

Maxwell hated carrots.

*

Early morning, as always, and his head was pounding and the light was hurting his eyes but all things considered, it wouldn't have been a bad start.

Had not a certain someone come sprinting through camp, hysterically screeching for Wickerbottom.

“Something's destroyed the farms!”

Maxwell barely acknowledged the chaos starting to build up near the old womans tent, more focused on digging through his things and checking the small fridge that had been set up near to his firepit for a breakfast of some sort.

It didn't work all that well, and when it broke down he found it took him a few days before he'd give in and get someone to come over and fix it, but at least he didn't always have to search the community fridge all the damn time. He already had to deal with others thinking he was some freeloader; it was best if he had his own food supply, at least to avoid all that drama.

Unfortunately the fridges barren insides were all that greeted him today, and Maxwell rubbed a hand over his eyes before sighing, slowly straightening back up into a stand.

He would have to find something else then, or go without.

Which, according to his roiling gut, wouldn't be the best option. These past few months have seen him gain a new appetite, something recent and rather debilitating if you ask him, and it was a pain in the neck.

It was one of the few reasons he still stuck around this mess of a camp; Wolfgang had the ideal that everyone should eat full meals together, so he wasn't as excluded as he usually would be.

He was fine with that, most of the time, what with how he was fairly good at scavenging around and slipping away with things that no one would notice gone, but this new hunger issue was going to be the death of him and at least he could rely on there being a stable, set time dinner, even with his newfound pickiness.

Otherwise he'd have left a long time ago.

“Everything's destroyed, ripped apart, the fences are scattered and everything growing in there is gone!”

Maxwell could hear Higgsbury’s voice from across the camp, an insistent, annoying pitch to it. Like a cicada, he thought dully, especially since the man was practically shouting at this point.

He sighed, looking over where his mostly empty backpack was and the rest of his, mostly unstocked, supplies were. This headache was going to get rather terrible today, he decided, rubbing his forehead, and the fact his tongue still had the taste of some rooty vegetable just made it even worse.

Water would be nice, though he supposed it wouldn't wash the taste away.

It never did.

“Mr. Higgsbury, lower your tone!”

Maxwell looked over idly, watched as Wickerbottom emerged from her tent, still in her nightgown and having a grip on a particularly thick book. The short man who had been practically hysterical quieted, though he was still pacing and racking his claws through his hair, looking manic.

He could see Wolfgang over there, looking confused, and Webber was up too, rubbing at their eyes and twittering in worry, Willow with the usual harsh, disorientated look on her face, arms crossed and tapping her foot impatiently.

Maxwell glanced up at the sky, the sun not fully risen high yet. Even with Higgsburys yelling, not everyone had woken up, or bothered to get out of their tents. He wondered if he should even attempt to make his way over, listen in to see what the trouble was.

What with that firstarter over there, however, he'd rather not grace them with his presence. No need to be stuck with the blame of something he didn't want to be involved in.

The babble of talk started up, incomprehensible as he turned his attention away, to take stock of his things. With this headache steadily growing, it would be a good idea to make sure everything was in its place and organized, out of the way. Cleaned up, and having this little spot of his that the rest of these fools have oh so graciously given him actually be to his liking would at least make this day a little less insufferable.

So Maxwell wasn't very focused on how the conversation of destroyed farms went, nor did he even notice that someone had made his way over and was glaring at him until the last possible moment.

He was able to hide his freeze by the fact that he was standing and looking through his backpack, a moment where he side eyed the short man and his scowling face as the fear response of being crept up on left him. 

“What do you want?”

Higgsbury seethed, possibly aggravated even more by his apathetic tone, arms crossed and talons curled into fists.

“Do you know anything?” Hissed out, angry, and Maxwell mused on the fact that perhaps Higgsbury had already come to the conclusion that he should be blaming him, instead of actually not being an idiot.

“About what? That is a rather broad question to be asking.” He was nonchalant, not even bothering to give the man the time of day as he dug around the backpack, counting a few twigs and grass bundles, a couple of torches and some flint. The bare bones, and here he had thought he'd been stocking up fairly well.

Perhaps someone has been sneaking off with his things again.

“The farms, the farms of course!” He turned in time to see Higgsbury start to pace, the short man looking even more manic now, eyes wide and mind obviously spinning all too fast. “Something got into them last night, ruined every crop growing in there, and now nothing is ready to be harvested for Winter.”

Maxwell put on a show of actually looking in thought, scratching his chin as the other man stopped short to turn on him, mouth already opening to start just as he interrupted.

“Have you asked the lumberjack if he knows anything?”

Higgsbury opened and closed his mouth a moment, looking frustrated as he fought the words he was trying to say, and shook a talon at him. “Yes, don't even bother me with Woodie, I've already talked to him! He was out in the opposite direction, in the forest, and came back earlier this morning with enough logs to last.”

Talking more seemed to ease him, looking as if lost in thought as he rambled, and Maxwell looked down at him for a moment, his own mind moving along.

So, Woodie was already back in camp then?

“He'd not do that anyway, so don't bother trying to place the blame on him! He's actually going to accompany me over there soon, to see if he can identify the culprit!” Higgsbury gave him a pointed look, as if he was the reason for this mess in the first place. 

“Why are you asking me? Your bloody farms don't interest me in the slightest.” Maxwell turned away, to continue what he had been doing. Which was clean his campsite, no matter how small it was, and then he should probably go find something to eat before midday. 

He didn't quite like wandering around when the sun was fully up.

“Because-” The short man stopped, voice stilling in his throat, and Maxwell glanced over to him and realized that the only reason Higgsbury was here was to try and pin the blame on him.

Fortunately the man had no evidence whatsoever, and he knew it.

“If you have nothing else to inform me of, kindly go bother someone else. I do have things I need to do today.”

“Like what, sleeping?” Maxwell winced, eyes darting over to see that his camp now had two visitors, and what luck he had for Willow to come over. “Or, I don't know, standing around doing nothing but sneer? I guess that is pretty damn important, especially for an old asshole like you.”

She raised a hand to her chin, looking off into the distance mockingly, and Higgsbury shook his head, scowl hardening on his face. He didn't even grace Maxwell with a farewell, spinning on his heel and stomping off, only shouting back over his shoulder.

“He knows nothing, Willow, don't even bother. He's got a whole day of nothing to be occupied with anyway.”

Now that was uncalled for, Maxwell puffing up in indignation, and Willows face cracked with her own crooked grin before she spun away, pigtails whipping around as she jogged after the short man. He watched them leave, now seething himself, and with that turned back to his camp to stuff everything away, whatever more eased mood he had been in dashed away.

And the headache had gotten worse, pounding behind his eyes. The only thing to make this day worse would be that he'd not find anything to eat.

Which was a real possibility, looking over his not as clean but good enough space of a camp, and its very empty, foodless nature.

With his stomach growling now, and a quick glance around to see if he was being watched, Maxwell turned about and started to make his way elsewhere.

The farms, unfortunately, were not a viable option, from how Higgsbury made it sound. And he'd not be going to that damn community fridge, not with Willow around and watching. Another little conversation like that and he might snap.

It turns out that, perhaps, being hungry shortened his patience.

The only other place that he could go where there would be food, and would probably not have many people around were the planters nearby. There was a cave entrance as well, a plan to move the planters downstairs still in the works, but for now he'd avoid that area and just go to the mushrooms.

The caves were not safe, especially alone, no matter how much he'd rather be down there than up here.

Grumbling darkly to himself, still a little peeved from how those two had treated him, Maxwell made a beeline to the mushroom planters, following the slowly intensifying stench of rot and fungus and manure.

When he ended up in the clearing, however, it was a little disheartening.

It turned out, whatever had done in the farms had also ravaged the planters as well.

Nudging a hunk of wood, very much dead even with that face etched into its very bark, Maxwell sighed at the sight. It was a mess, and whoever found it like this was probably going to have another manic fit.

So it would probably be best if he got out of doge then. Before he'd leave, however, Maxwell started to scavenge around, possibly to see if anything survived perhaps, or maybe some incriminating evidence that he could do away with.

Nothing but furrows in the ground, marks scuffed around and bites in the wood, a few trace holes dug here or there in the places where the bigger, healthier planters had been.

The one who had done this last night seemed to have been pretty thorough, unluckily for him. His stomach growled, cramped, that feeling of a hole being carved into him started up, and blast this damn hunger of his, it was distracting as hell.

He used to be good at ignoring having to actually eat, of having to find food constantly, but this new development was damning him now. How the others, such as that strongman, could even deal with it he had no idea.

As he was finally leaving, however, Maxwell made the split decision to lash out at one particularly large chunk of living wood, shaped and filled with badly made nails, kicking it as hard as he could.

That just resulted in a stubbed toe and a limp, a few hissing curses, but it also thumped the thing over and uncovered something.

Just a singular blue mushroom, overlooked by what had eaten through the place last night, but beggars couldn't be choosers and he snatched it up immediately, dusting off the dirt and turning himself to hurry back, away from the scene.

He was hungry enough to just stuff the damn thing into his mouth, dry and thick and that ice cold of its lingering mental effect slipping into his mind, cloying on his headache thankfully, and it wouldn't last him but having something, anything in his stomach at this point was better than absolutely nothing at all. It felt heavy in his gut, not at all what he should be eating first thing in the morning, though his outing and thus return to the campsite had allowed the sun to rise almost fully overhead now. Morning was ending, and the light was turning more yellowed now with the sun above.

No one minded his return, which was a blessing in disguise, what with his sullen mood and still there, if a little dampered, headache, and Wolfgang was over by the drying racks, Webber helping tie up rope for a few more to be set up. Wickerbottom at her own site, as usual, scratching away at another book, but otherwise the place was fairly empty.

If he was to guess, which he has gotten into the habit as of late, to try and make sure he knew where everyone was just for the explicit ability to avoid them all, Wigfrid and Willow were probably out, hunting or deforesting via fire, Wendy either with them or out on her own, and Wilson had already said he was going back to the farms with Woodie.

With the robot out of sight, perhaps his niece went to check her own flower gardens in their company instead.

Perhaps it was intuition, but Maxwell was fairly certain that those gardens were just fine and she needn't have worried. It was further away than the farms, and had less of a food source to it.

Not as if he cared about either farm nor garden, however. The planters were really the only thing he felt a loss for, and that was because of the lack of food that he could run off with without being caught now.

With the sun up, and very little settled in his stomach but at least making him feel a little better, Maxwell made his way to his tent, a glance over his campsite enough for him to know no one has been going through anything yet. He'd have to reorganize it again, later, since he had been interrupted earlier today and hadn't really done what he had wanted.

He glanced automatically upwards, eyeing the clear skies, before another obligatory search about the camp, straightening up a moment just to check around.

Thoroughly satisfied from the lack of anything happening that could affect him, Maxwell ducked down back into his tent.

Willows words, mocking, floated through his head a moment, a little aggravating, but he was already in and, with how unpleasant this day has been so far, sleeping did seem like the best option.

It would also help to ignore his hunger, and the cravings that came with it. That mushroom had done little to get the taste of carrot off his tongue, and it was going to make him lose his ever loving mind if he continued to be awake enough to taste the vegetable.

He didn't even like carrots!

With that in mind, Maxwell shifted his blankets about and laid down, hands digging about a minute before giving up and curling underneath the beefalo fur quilts.

It was nice of Wickerbottom to have given them to him, though he was sure it was some sort of moral obligation rather than her own kindness. After all, these ones were worn out and not quite as pristine, nor as well made as everyone else's.

Hell, Webber dragged around one of her more colorful quilts, and it still hasn't fallen apart from them wearing it out. And here his were, losing stuffing and going ragged.

Oh well, it at least wasn't too bad, Maxwell blurrily thought, burying himself under the fabric and covering his head in darkness.

Better than dirt and grass, that was for sure, though he's been in the tighter confines of the caves before and the warmth in the air was rather hard to compete with, even with its humidity. 

He did prefer dry, packed earth over damp dirt, however. Easier to dig in, without everything crumbling under his feet.

With his thoughts tapering off into random thought, Maxwell dozed off as the sun continued its trek overhead.

*  
“ “

It took a moment for him to wake up, a little dizzy, and an even longer moment to realize someone was talking to him.

“-up, Max?”

He didn't sit up, didn't even open his eyes, just curled up even more under his blankets and tried to ignore everything in favor of falling back asleep. Everything felt absolutely terrible.

“Best get up, bud, or it'll get worse.”

He almost didn't do it, stomach gnawing and burning in his lower belly, joints sore and his head pounding even worse than before, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and had made short work of his skull and now he was left with the remains in a messy pile. That horrid taste was in his mouth still, grinding his teeth loudly for a moment as he pressed his hands to his face, pain shooting up his spine, and the blankets on him were heavy and hot and claustrophobic as hell, seemed to make everything even worse.

“You need me to getcha out or what? Once you're up and moving you'll feel better.” The voice paused, as if doing something else besides poking into his tent, before lightening up as there was a change in the air. “Oi, I found some leftovers in Wilson's farms, hidden away. I think you'd want them, eh?”

He could smell something, now, and a moment later he sat up, pushing the blankets off his head and rubbing at his eyes tiredly, the pain flaring up his spine and oozing into his joints, wrapping about his chest and squeezing.

“Damn, you don't look good at all.” He blinked blurrily to the man looking into his tent, half in and half out, but barely registered him before something was held out to him. “I was told you didn't eat anythin’, but I'd have thought you'd go out looking at least.”

Maxwell didn't even pay him any attention, immediately snatched up the offered food and stuffing it into his mouth, ignoring how his jaw ached and how twitchy he felt, how cloying everything felt. 

He hated carrots, but for once this one tasted not half bad, and his teeth felt awkward in his mouth for a few moments more as he swallowed it down, not even sparing the leafy top. A second later, as he took a deep breath, and the pain all faded away, pulled back into something thin and cloudy, only his headache keeping to him still, though thankfully it was greatly lessened now.

When he got his barings, blinking and taking deep, steadying breaths, Maxwell looked up to see Woodie watching him with a worried look on his face.

“What the hell am I supposed to do if I find you turned in here, huh?” The man shook his head, Maxwell clamping his mouth shut and keeping silent, suddenly very agitated and, in some ways, ashamed. There was silence between them, Maxwell not even looking him in the eye, before Woodie heaved a sigh.

“Well, don't stay in there any longer, it'll make you worse. And I've got more of those, by the way, though not nearly enough I'm thinking.” He pulled back, held the tent flap open, and Maxwell could see an evening light out there, dusk now. It looked like he had slept most of the day away.

With the taste of carrot in his mouth, stronger now, Maxwell quietly exhaled, curled his hands into fists, and got out of his tent.

There was hustle and bustle, in the more congregated areas of the camp, and it looked as if almost everyone was around, near to where he could see Wolfgang working near the throng of crockpots. As far back as his tent and living space was, it seemed as if they were being ignored at the moment. 

Woodie looked him up and down, critically, and he huffed out an incomprehensible curse and straightened up, spine cracking as the world sort of wobbled a bit and made him grow light headed. 

A hand on his shoulder kept him steady, his distaste at being touched marred by the fact that the headache had increased, and he had to focus as Woodie spoke up and started to lead him elsewhere.

“I have some stuff over near my tent, and you'll need some water too from the looks of it. Christ Max, what have you even been doing all day?”

“Sleeping…” He mumbled that, closing his eyes a moment as the world tried to get back into alignment, and even from what he had just eaten previously his stomach was growling again, cramping up.

Woodies hand tightened, carefully guiding him hopefully away from the prying eyes of the others, though he had his eyes closed and he couldn't even bring himself the effort to care about them or their opinions.

“...Last night's moon had been a little exhausting, I can agree with that, but…” Woodies voice trailed off a moment, lost in thought, and finally stopped Maxwells staggering steps, pressing down on his shoulders before he figured out that Woodie wanted him to sit. “That's really not a good excuse, you know. And turning again, so soon, would not be a good idea.”

Maxwell blinked open his eyes, to see Woodies fire pit already started, and when the man held something out to him he stared dizzily at it for a moment before the realization of what it was set in and he snatched up the waterskin.

Woodie shook his head again, sitting slightly across from him on an old tree trunk before reaching down to the pack on the ground and scooping it up. Digging through it, he pulled out a few more of the root vegetables, Maxwell finally taking a second to gasp for breath as the water sloshed about in his system. Even with what he had in him already, he eyed the carrots in the mans lap, Woodie taking back the waterskin as Maxwell fought off the urge to have a quick, sweeping look about, keeping himself still.

He was still twitchy, it seemed, and it made him anxious, this thing he couldn't quite control, but then Woodie handed over a few of the carrots and his thoughts quieted down almost instantly.

As he ate them, jaw aching a bit from eating something a little more solid than he usually wanted to eat, that itch in his chest and the back of his mind quieted drastically, relaxing and calming him down the more he filled his stomach.

As Woodie had said earlier, however, there still wasn't enough, and his hands were empty all too soon.

But at least the headache was finally, finally gone.

When he finally looked up, wiping at his mouth and trying to not feel even worse off for acting such a way around another person, Woodie was looking elsewhere, off to where the rest of the camp was grouping.

“Don't think you're up for meatballs, are ya?”

“Absolutely not.” Maxwell winced, the practically automatic response out of his mouth before he could even think of an answer, and shook his head, mouth closed tight as he breathed heavily a moment.

Woodie gave him a sympathetic look, which at least was better than pity.

“I'd have a talk to Wolfgang about making ratatouille more often, but unfortunately you went and destroyed the farms. Right before Winter too.”

There was disappointment he could detect there, and that made him angry.

“That wasn't me.” Maxwell snarled that out, glowering at the other man, but Woodie just shook his head, shrugged off his frustration.  
“Don't pull that on me, buddy. There's nothing else out here that'd do that.”

Maxwell floundered a moment, more than angry now, and his stomach rolled with what he had eaten, making him feel ill and disgusted. 

“What do beavers eat, I wonder?” He was being petty now, narrowing his glare at the other man, who didn't at all look offended. “I'm sure it's not just wood and sticks, pal.”

A moment of silence, before Woodie burst out laughing, shaking his head as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

“ ‘Wood and sticks’, christ Max, you really don't want to own up, do ya.”

“It. Wasn't. Me.” He insisted, the light tone of a whine lacing his voice, and when he realized that he looked away, crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders, feeling nauseous.

Damn everything to hell and back. He hated this, more than he could ever possibly admit, and it made everything, which had been bad from the get go, even worse.

And now, this Winter was going to be hell.

Because he couldn't even control himself.

The blame could be placed anywhere, hell he could even blame Woodie for it, but the fact of the matter is that his own willpower was pitiful in the face of what he was now.

He couldn't even keep himself out of those god damn farms, not to mention the planters he had been relying on for so long. Oh, sneaking back into camp and into his tent was easy enough, but keeping himself from eating food, especially the salad fest that Higgsburys garden grew? No, no, that was just too hard to keep away from, and he absolutely hated himself for it.

Actually, he detested himself for it, loathed himself, hate was just not the strong word he needed at the moment, and he pressed his head into his hands, curled up as he exhaled a shaky breath, trying to ignore the babble of conversation from the rest of the camp and the crackle of the fire and the fact he could hear everything, so loud and clear and everywhere, everything making sound, NOISE.

The urge to go darting back into his tent was strong, not even realizing he was shaking until he felt a hand on his shoulder, a firm anchor.

“It's nothin’ to be ashamed of.” Woodie said quietly. “Just got to learn around it, is all.”

Everything quieted down for a moment, Maxwell taking in a few slow, deep breaths, before sitting back up, Woodie pulling away as they both sat in silence.

The talking and conversation from over to the middle of camp was quieter now, Maxwell shivering at the smell of cooked food, which both made his stomach feel emptier yet set it cramping at the same time.

Sometimes he woke up with the taste of rabbit blood in his mouth, instead of carrots. The others gossiped on that for quite awhile, on the hare corpses they'd find outside of camp, and the first time he found one his gut had recoiled and he had gotten sick enough that people had begun to grow worried of contagion.

His gaze flickered to the other man, who was messing around with his pack again, digging through its supplies before finding what he was looking for. Maxwell watched Woodie pull out a thick log, pine and with dark colored bark, watched as the man went about taking bites out of it, splinters catching in his mustache and beard.

They were in the same boat, after all.

Woodie silently pulled out a handful of berries, red and a little old looking, handing them over to him, and Maxwell dipped his head, frown on his face and keeping from making eye contact as he accepted the food and set about filling his own stomach with less filling things than wood. At least he didn't have to deal with splinters in his gums.

For a while, there was quiet, just the comforting babble of talk from the rest of the camp and the fires crackles and pops.

Then he straightened up, gaze jerking around to look out to the side path out of camp, to the torch light rapidly racing towards the rest of the camp.

When Higgsbury burst out of the darkness, that hysterical look on his face and eyes wide, equal parts angry and panicked, Maxwell could already guess what he was going to say.

“The mushroom planters are destroyed! Something ate everything there, it's all gone!”

There was a snort beside him, Maxwell turning to level a frown at Woodies red face, the man covering his mouth to stop his laughter.

“That wasn't me either.”

**Author's Note:**

> My sibling brought up that Wallace and Gromit movie, The Curse of the Were Rabbit, and now I can't even take myself seriously.


End file.
